How to Be an Opera Ghost
by Pirate Perian
Summary: When the real opera ghost doesn't feel like haunting things anymore... well, SOMEONE has to take his place. Not EOW. On hiatus for the time being, although I hope to finish it eventually.
1. Scheme

_**Disclaimer:** The setting and the original Phantom story aren't mine. Obviously. But this one is._

_This story is a deliberately tongue-in-cheek tribute to every phangirl who ever secretly wished to be Erik... and in later chapters, to every phangirl who ever secretly wished to be_ with _Erik. This one's for you._

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**_How to Be an Opera Ghost_**

**_Part One: "Scheme"_**

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* * *

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It wasn't that Isabelle was a snoop. She simply made a point to read everyone else's mail. There was really no harm in it, she reasoned; after all, it was the very best way to find out what really went on behind the innocent eyes of her fellow dancers. And besides, if they _really_ didn't want anyone else reading their letters, they wouldn't leave them out in the open like that.

A letter left atop a scarf, for example, revealed Geneviève Rémy's illicit relations with a married duke. A letter left propped up against a mirror told Isabelle how an abusive father had led to Anne St. Fort's present penchant for indulging in spirits. A letter left sticking out of a handbag had entertained Isabelle with the story of Elise Marchand's perfectly normal romance with a young shopkeeper… and the baby that she'd had to get rid of before it was even born, for the sake of continuing her career.

Meg Giry's letters were not left out in the open. They were usually hidden quite carefully beneath other papers or in bags or what have you – but Meg Giry's letters were _worth_ a little snooping. Ever since Isabelle had overheard Meg speaking to Christine Daaé that day, ever since she'd overheard the words "opera ghost" in their conversation, she had read Meg's letters religiously.

She had gasped in delighted shock when Christine wrote about being abducted by the ghost – Erik – and seeing his horrific face for the first time. She'd had to wipe tears from her eyes when Christine wrote of how much he loved her. She'd giggled quietly to herself when Christine wrote about Raoul de Chagny and her blossoming feelings for the Opéra's young patron. She'd shook her head in sympathy when Christine wrote of her conflicting devotion to each of the two men. And she'd been absolutely speechless when Christine wrote of how the opera ghost had let her go, and how she had fled north with Raoul.

_Again I must beg your secrecy, my dear Meg,_ wrote Christine in her letter._ I wish for no-one to know where I have gone, and I implore you not to follow me. For as much as I'll miss your face, my friend, above all else I now desire to sever my ties to the Opéra. I hope that you can understand._

That was the last letter of Christine's that Isabelle found. And it only served to prove what Isabelle had suspected all along: that Christine Daaé was needlessly melodramatic, and a bit of an idiot.

Honestly. How many of the chorus girls would kill for the opportunity to be kidnapped, unconditionally adored by a mysterious genius, and made to live in an underground palace where they wouldn't have to do anything all day except eat, sleep, sing, and be worshipped?

Never mind about his face, and the killing, and all that. It was _romantic,_ and romance demanded at least a little bit of dramatic tension.

But no; Christine Daaé had run away with her safe, handsome, boring Vicomte as soon as things had gotten interesting.

Worst of all, as soon as she'd gone, the lives of everyone at the Opéra had gotten less interesting as well. The dancers used to delight in being frightened out of their wits by the ghost's latest prank, but he'd suddenly seemed to have lost interest in haunting anyone at all. There weren't so much as mysterious shadows in the corridors anymore. It was completely and utterly boring. And Isabelle blamed Christine.

Something needed to be done, she decided. She hadn't come to the Opéra to be another pretty face in a tutu; she'd come for the intrigues! The romance! The disembodied voices in the dressing-rooms! The falling chandeliers! The very things from which Christine had fled! But now that Christine had gone, the only things left were the damned tutus.

Yes, something needed to be done.

Though the plan took Isabelle several days, in retrospect she thought it was very logical – so logical that she was surprised she hadn't thought of it sooner.

The problem? There was no more excitement to be had at the Opéra.

The reason? The ghost had lost interest in being a ghost.

The solution? There needed to be a new ghost.

Who might be suitable for the job? Someone who cared about haunting things properly.

And who might _that_ be?

Isabelle smiled to herself as she gave the carriage driver the address of the nearest tailor. Well, it was worth a try.


	2. Prepare

**_How to Be an Opera Ghost_**

**_Part Two: "Prepare"_**

* * *

"You want a suit of men's eveningwear?" repeated the elderly tailor. 

"Entirely black."

"With a cloak."

"Correct."

"And you want me to use _your _measurements, mademoiselle?"

"That's right. The gentleman is roughly the same size as I am, and I want it to be a surprise for him. It's, er, my brother."

It was a stupid cover story and Isabelle knew it, but she'd be damned if she could think of a better one. Either way though, it worked. As long as she could pay for the suit (and she could), it didn't matter how suspicious the tailor was of her request. He'd make it anyway; and the better she tipped him, the fewer questions he'd ask.

Her trip to the millinery shop was even worse.

"I'd like a gentleman's hat, please," said Isabelle as innocently as she could. "Black, and a bit floppy if you could manage it."

"Floppy?" echoed the poor milliner, who looked more than a little confused.

"Floppy," said Isabelle.

"Er," said the milliner. "You do realize that this is a _ladies'_ hat shop?"

Isabelle stared at her. Of course; how could she be so stupid? How could she have come in here for years to buy her own hats, and never once noticed that there were no men's hats to be seen?

"Oh," said Isabelle. "Right. Well. Do you know where I could find a _men's_ hat shop, then?"

The milliner, smiling indulgently at her, proceeded to give her the address of a nearby shop where she'd once bought a very nice hat for her husband. Isabelle slunk out of the shop, feeling very foolish indeed.

o o o

As the sun set over the city, Isabelle walked back to her flat with a hatbox tucked under her arm. After searching through five different shops, she'd finally managed to find a black hat that was floppy enough to suit her purposes, but not so floppy that it would look silly. All in all, she was quite pleased with how productive her day had been. The suit was on its way. White shirts to wear underneath the coat hadn't been a problem to find. And she'd even found the right sort of hat.

Now all that remained was the mask, which was after all the most important part of being an opera ghost.

And, as it turned out, the most difficult. Especially since, though everyone knew the ghost's mask was white, nobody had ever gotten close enough to see what it was made of. And Christine, that stupid little twit, hadn't been thoughtful enough to mention in her letters what sort of mask it was.

The first thing that Isabelle tried was white cloth, stolen the previous day from under the costume mistress' nose. But no matter how Isabelle cut and sewed it, she couldn't make it look like anything the opera ghost might wear. The forehead kept flopping down over the nose, and the lower half fluttered away from her mouth whenever she breathed. It simply wouldn't do.

Next she tried papier-mâché, which was a veritable disaster. As hard as she tried to form a wearable mask out of the pasty stuff, the best she could get was an odd lump of mush with two eyeholes that were too close together.

She thought about leather, but gave up approximately three seconds after the idea occurred to her. She was sure to have as many problems with leather as she'd had with cloth, and it would probably be too hard to cut anyway.

In the end, she had to admit to herself that she wasn't a master craftswoman by any stretch of the imagination. But she couldn't simply go out and purchase a mask, as she'd done with the clothing! Well, she _could…_ but that wasn't the point. There would be no mystery involved that way; no intrigue! No. Her mask had to be her own.

So back to the costume department she went, the very next day. She ended up choosing a thin porcelain mask, which was large enough to cover her entire face save the jaw, but not so large that it weighed her head down and made her neck ache. It was bright purple with a gold star over one eye, which was a problem – but that was easily fixed. White paint was easy enough to come by.

As she sat beside her bed that night and carefully painted the mask, a tiny voice inside Isabelle's head tried to point out that this was not exactly what she'd meant when she resolved to have a mask of her own devising.

But Isabelle told the voice to shut up.

It was close enough.


	3. Try

**_How to Be an Opera Ghost_**

**_Part Three: "Try"_**

* * *

On a Tuesday approximately three weeks later, Isabelle decided that it was time to have a go at haunting. There was a principal rehearsal for the latest production of _Carmen,_ but the corps de ballet had nothing scheduled until Thursday afternoon.

Isabelle debated changing into her suit while still at her own flat, but pure logic defeated that idea. What if someone should see her leave and know it was her? What if someone should accost her on the street and inquire after her? It wouldn't do to reply, "Oh, I'm going to the Opéra. I'm the new ghost, you know."

No, she would have to change her clothes once she arrived.

It wasn't unheard of for the occasional dancer to come in on her day off in order to practice; so nobody gave Isabelle a second glance as she entered and made her way toward the dressing-room. Upon making sure that nobody else was inside, she locked the door and began to unpack the suit from her dance satchel, where she'd carefully tucked it beneath a few pairs of ballet shoes, just in case anyone should look.

She'd had to fold it into a small parcel in order to fit it in her bag, which left a few unsightly creases in the cloak, but she didn't mind terribly much. Checking the lock once more for good measure, she began to don the suit. She thought about binding her chest first, but then realized that her bindings would probably be more noticeable inside the suit than her chest would. This made her frown, but only for a moment. She had far more important things to worry about.

_Such as shoes,_ she realized a few minutes later. She'd not thought of shoes.

"Damn," she said softly to herself, looking around for a solution. She couldn't very well use the shoes she'd come in; intuition told her that people might laugh at a ghost who wore little white heels. Especially little white heels with bows on them.

At very least, she would have to find something black. After a few minutes wasted scouring the tables and closets, her eyes finally alighted on her own bag. And the four pairs of shoes that she always carried within. Her best pair of pointe shoes, a spare pair just in case, and the two pairs of slippers that she used for warming up: one pink, and one black.

She tentatively laced up the black pair, feeling distinctly odd in the combination of her own familiar shoes and a suit not even intended for someone of her gender. But when she regarded herself in the mirror on the far wall, her fears were somewhat allayed. The ballet slippers certainly made her feet look far too small for the suit, but if she'd gotten the rest of the costume right, who would be looking at her feet?

She carefully pinned her hair up, pressing it tightly against her head so that she could easily conceal it with the hat. She fastened the mask in place. And then, the final touch: the cloak. A long black cloak which swished when she walked and flared when she twirled.

Not that she would twirl. She was almost certain that a proper opera ghost should not twirl.

Again she looked in the mirror, and this time she shivered a little at her own reflection. She had done a _very _good job, if she might say so herself. She was perhaps a touch short for the role, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was that to her eyes, the mask looked awfully good.

She grinned at herself in the mirror, but then realized that a ghost likely wouldn't grin. So she scowled instead, which worked much better. She grinned again in approval of her first-rate scowling, then hid her satchel and clothing in the closet just in case, and set forth from the room.

"What should I haunt today?" she murmured to herself, and the very absurdity of the phrase caused a nervous chuckle to escape her lips. But she pondered the question as she walked – no, _stalked_ – along the corridor, and then settled on the most obvious answer: the theatre itself.

As she drew closer, she could hear the faint sounds of La Ernestina (or La Brunhilde, as the chorus tended to call her because of her thick German accent) practicing her scales. Isabelle began to feel her pulse racing with anticipation. She would frighten the new diva out of her wits! She would watch as La Ernestina screamed and fled from the stage! She would cackle maniacally and hope that it wouldn't sound too feminine! She would—

She stopped cold.

What _would_ she do?

If the shoes had been a major oversight on her part, then this had surely been a moment of utter blindness. Even with all her preparation, it had somehow never occurred to her that she hadn't the faintest idea of _how_ to haunt people.

Embarrassed beyond belief, she withdrew into a dark corner beside a column to think. What would the real ghost do? Well, aside from the occasional falling chandelier and disappearing diva, it was all harmless pranks, as far as she knew. Things went missing and then turned up later somewhere else. Mirrors shimmered and showed faint images of things that weren't really there. Doors opened and closed, seemingly of their own accord. And sometimes, there was a ghostly apparition of a man in eveningwear, which disappeared as soon as it had been seen.

Now, she had the costume. She could certainly do the ghostly apparition part.

But as for the mirrors and doors and disappearing – well, she wasn't so sure about that. And how would the ghostly apparitions be possible if she couldn't disappear afterwards?

And speaking of ghostly apparitions – what was that noise? It sounded far too much like footsteps for Isabelle's comfort. Footsteps coming from the other side of the column, and growing louder.

_Oh dear,_ she thought. She pressed herself into the shadow of her chosen corner, raising her cloaked arm to cover the glaring whiteness of her mask. And she hoped for the best.


	4. Succeed

**_How to Be an Opera Ghost_**

**_Part Four: "Succeed"_**

* * *

The footsteps drew closer, so close that Isabelle had to hold her breath to keep from giving herself away. So close that she could feel the vibration through the floor. So close… but then they moved right past her. Without even stopping.

Relieved beyond measure, Isabelle lowered her arm so that she could see the retreating figure of the person who'd just passed her. A portly woman was now walking steadily away from her; an older woman with white hair.

Isabelle clenched her hand into a fist in annoyance. She'd been scared nearly out of her wits by a bloody _maid._

Scowling beneath the mask, Isabelle narrowed her eyes at the figure. Vengeance, she decided, was in order. (And then she congratulated herself on the thought; vengeance was a very ghostly thing to think, which meant that she was beginning to get a feel for the role.)

She followed the woman as stealthily as she could, keeping to the shadows and treading lightly – the latter of which was surprisingly easy, thanks to the ballet slippers. Isabelle made a mental note not to replace them with proper ghost shoes after all. Whatever proper ghost shoes were.

She watched as the woman waddled down the corridor toward the main entrances to the auditorium, but didn't dare follow her out into the open lest she should be seen. She watched, and she waited impatiently for an idea. Vengeance! She must have vengeance! But what _kind_ of vengeance? She would have loved to frighten the maid in return, and she knew that a mere sighting of the opera ghost would be enough to do it… but what about afterwards? She would have to run away to avoid any closer inspection of her person, but where would she go?

This was already turning out to be much more than she'd bargained for.

The woman, oblivious to Isabelle's vain thoughts of revenge, continued on. But after a moment, Isabelle saw that she was not heading for the auditorium after all, but for the boxes! The maid unlocked the first door and went inside – and immediately all thoughts of revenge left Isabelle's head. This was better than revenge. This was an opportunity to _haunt_.

Right now, the maid was inside Box One, presumably dusting it or something to that effect, which left only two doors to go until she would reach Box Five. And Five was the ghost's private box; everyone knew that. At least, everyone in the corps de ballet did, since Meg Giry talked incessantly about how the concierge, her mother, would leave the ghost his program and occasionally even bring him a footstool.

Out came the maid again, after only a few minutes. She locked the door to Box One and moved on to Three, which was next door over. Isabelle waited patiently for her to be finished with Three, and just as before she came out, locked the door, and unlocked the next one.

As the maid moved into Box Five, Isabelle silently followed. The maid, feather-duster in hand, bustled around the box with her back to the door. Isabelle looked around and quickly discovered a discarded pin on the floor, which she laid atop one of the door's hinges. Then she slipped behind one of the box's curtains and waited for the maid to finish. The poor maid moved past Isabelle's curtain as she finished, and made to close the door – which of course did not work, thanks to the treacherous pin.

The sounds of the maid trying to close the door nearly made Isabelle laugh, but she couldn't risk giving herself away. After a few choice curses, the maid gave up on the jammed door and moved on. When she heard the door to Box Seven unlock, Isabelle quickly removed the pin, closed the door to the ghost's – _her_ – box, and locked it from the inside.

Silently congratulating herself on accomplishing the first part of her task, Isabelle began the second part. The actual haunting part. And this was easy enough: all she had to do was step forward, just so, and step forward again, just so, until she was in the light.

There.

Placing her hands upon her hips in a fashion she sincerely hoped was manly and imposing, she tilted her head up just enough that the brim of her hat wouldn't prevent the light from illuminating her mask.

Now, all she had to do was wait for someone to spot her.

La Ernestina continued to sing with abandon, eventually moving on from scales to choice segments of various arias that Isabelle vaguely recognized. The other few singers warmed up much more quietly, their voices dwarfed entirely by La Ernestina's presence.

And not one of them thought to look up.

Isabelle stood in her ghost pose for thirty seconds, then a minute, then two minutes, then five, growing ever more irritated at the singers' apparent self-absorption – until finally, a young man by the name of Laurent chanced to look her way.

Shading his eyes against the light with one of his hands, the singer squinted up at her. "Georges, is that you?" he said. "Come down here! We've been waiting for you, and we can't begin till you're ready!"

Of course. Of all the possible people whose attention Isabelle could have caught, it had to be the one singer with bad eyesight.

But all was not lost, for La Ernestina had seen her too. The German diva let out a dainty little shriek, which sent a thrill down Isabelle's spine.

"It's the ghost!" she cried. "The opera ghost! The one they told me about! _Mein Gott!_ It's a sign! The production will be cursed!"

"Madame, madame, don't fret!" began Laurent, rushing over to comfort her. He lowered his voice as he spoke to her, and Isabelle could hear no more – but she didn't need to. Her work here was done.

Smirking to herself, Isabelle withdrew into the shadows again. This haunting business might not be so difficult after all.

And she escaped to the safety of the dressing room before anyone thought to come up and inspect Box Five.


	5. Practice

**_How to Be an Opera Ghost_**

**_Part Five: "Practice"_**

* * *

The new opera ghost was very, very pleased with herself. Her first day of haunting had been a wonderful success, and as she walked back to her flat that evening, she had to fight a ridiculous urge to dance all the way home. And fight it she did – at least until she was safely inside her own flat, whereupon she immediately twirled around the room a few times, just to give all the adrenaline in her system something to do.

Collapsing in her favourite chair, Isabelle grinned to herself. Being a ghost was fun – far more fun than she'd ever thought it could be. It was like having free reign over the entire Opéra! As the ghost, she could go anywhere and do anything, and nobody would question her. Most people, as she'd discovered that day, would catch a glimpse of her from afar and run the other way without even stopping to look more closely. In a way, this was a bit disappointing (after all, she'd gone through so much trouble to perfect the costume); but mostly it was thrilling. It was a feeling of power that she'd never experienced before in her entire life.

There was, of course, the question of the _real_ opera ghost, the mysterious fellow called Erik whom Christine had said lived five levels below the Opéra. Was he still there? Isabelle didn't know. Did he still pay attention to the goings-on at the Opéra, even though he didn't haunt it anymore? She didn't know. Did he know that someone had taken his place?

She didn't know.

That last thought made her more than a little uneasy, but she shrugged it off as easily as she would a shawl. If the real ghost did find out about what she was doing, she reasoned, then surely he would see that it was for the greater good. The company _needed_ a ghost. He, of all people, would certainly understand that.

But more than anything, the company needed a _good _ghost. And Erik had been a very good ghost; of that there was no question.

Would Isabelle be a good ghost? She frowned to herself as she sat in her chair. Well, that remained to be seen. She'd done well on her first day, but there were still so many things that she needed to master. For instance, how did a ghost – a ghost who, from what little Isabelle knew, was as human as she was – get from place to place without being seen? How did a human ghost disappear after being spotted? How did a human ghost sneak in and out of Box Five without attracting anyone's attention?

It was all very puzzling, but Isabelle knew that it was useless to wonder about such things when one was sitting in one's flat and thus unable to inspect the Opéra any closer and find answers.

For now, she decided, she would only concentrate on things that she _could_ work on while at home.

Such as her laugh.

The ghost _had_ to have a laugh. Erik had had one, and therefore Isabelle ought to have one too. Yes… that was something that she could tackle right now.

Rising from her chair and planting herself in front of the nearest mirror, she took a deep breath and let out a low-pitched chuckle.

She wrinkled her nose at what had turned out to be a poor effort indeed. She tried again, but still it didn't seem right. It wasn't _sinister_ enough.

A thought occurred to her, and she darted over to her ballet satchel, retrieving the mask from beneath her multiple pairs of shoes. Fastening it upon her face, she went back to the mirror and stood up straight. Not straight like a ballet dancer – but straight like an elegant gentleman who wouldn't know how to stand any other way. Trying to ignore the fact that she was in a dress, she placed both hands on her hips and tried to feel… well, ghostly. Maybe if she felt ghostly, she reasoned, she would have an easier time of sounding it.

She thought the word "sinister" and chuckled again.

And it worked.

How odd! She chuckled at herself again, and a shiver ran down her spine at the sound. She was _good_ at this.

_Excellent!_ she thought. Now, it was time to move onto full-fledged maniacal laughter….


	6. Pretend

**_How to Be an Opera Ghost_**

**_Part Six: "Pretend"_**

* * *

Wednesday was much the same as Tuesday. Isabelle succeeded in frightening at least five people, and she made certain that one of them was La Ernestina; she could not possibly pass up the opportunity to have another go at the German diva, for she was so good at shrieking.

Shrieking!

All that Isabelle and her fellow ballerinas had ever done in the ghost's presence was giggle and run away. No wonder the ghost hadn't shown himself to them very often; scaring singers was far more rewarding!

Later in the day, she even worked up enough nerve to steal a costume belonging to one of the other principals. Hiding herself within hearing distance of the dressing-room in question, she listened with glee as Bernadette Garand (a particularly vicious-tempered young lady, especially for someone with only a small role) cursed first herself, then the costume mistress, and finally the ghost. The costume mistress, finally managing to calm her down, convinced her to wear a different dress just for the day. If the right one couldn't be found, well, she'd simply have to make another.

As soon as she was certain they'd vacated the room, Isabelle darted in, laid the dress across one of the tables without so much as a note, and darted back out again. She listened intently for Bernadette's return – and upon hearing the singer's half-angry and half-relieved exclamations upon finding her dress, Isabelle let out a well-rehearsed Sinister Chuckle. Bernadette stopped speaking immediately when the sound reached her ears, and Isabelle waited with bated breath for her to come outside and look for the source of the chuckle.

Come outside she did, but she gave up after only a cursory look up and down the corridor. She muttered something as she retreated back into her dressing-room, and Isabelle could have sworn she heard the word "ghost" in there somewhere.

Success.

By the time the dancers began rehearsals on Thursday, the company was alive with new gossip about the ghost. All anyone had to do was mention the word "ghost" and La Ernestina would fan herself as though she were about to faint; the more superstitious chorus members would cross themselves; and the stagehands would look surreptitiously upwards, as if waiting for something to crash down upon them.

And the ballet girls' dressing-room was more alive than it had been in weeks. Cécile Jammes, who'd been having a not-so-secret kind of secret relationship with the young soloist Laurent Mervil, informed everyone as soon as they arrived on Thursday that the ghost had been sighted again – and by Laurent himself, no less!

He'd been entirely in black, except for the white mask! He'd been up in Box Five, but by the time any of them could get upstairs to investigate, he'd disappeared! He'd cast a spell on La Ernestina that made her unable to sing for the rest of the day! (Isabelle was pleasantly surprised at this last tidbit, especially since she hadn't done anything of the sort. How easily blame was placed and rumors were spread...)

"I thought he'd gone for good," said Yvette Mercier when Cécile finished with her story.

"Me too," said Anne St. Fort with a dramatic sigh. "I wish he'd leave the company alone!"

Isabelle nodded fervently in agreement, just as the rest of them did, and even voiced her opinion on the matter: "I hope he doesn't bother any of _us..."_

But even as they whispered their dislike of the ghost – not too loudly, of course, lest they should be overheard – it was impossible not to catch the furtive smiles they passed to one another. Each of them knew as well as the next that this was the sort of thing they lived for.

Except perhaps Meg Giry. Isabelle couldn't help but notice that while Meg made a perfectly good show of laughing when the others laughed, and sighing when the other sighed, she did not participate in the conversation.

And this made perfect sense, didn't it? After all, Meg was presumably the only one of them who knew the truth about the ghost. His name. His deformed face. His tragic love for Christine Daaé. Was that why she looked so morose when the rest of them looked furtively excited? And was that why she frowned to herself when she thought nobody was looking?

By the end of their rehearsal that day, Isabelle knew that she had to speak to Meg about the ghost. She didn't know how she would accomplish such a thing, especially since she was not supposed to know anything more about the ghost than what the rest of the girls knew; but either way, Meg's reaction to the ghost's return was a thing that Isabelle couldn't pass up the opportunity to investigate further.


	7. Worry

**_How to Be an Opera Ghost_**

**_Part Seven: "Worry"_**

* * *

Days of rehearsal passed far too slowly, and Isabelle began to become restless with anxiety. As the corps de ballet spent hours upon hours perfecting their pirouettes and tour jêtés, two things weighed ever more heavily on her wandering mind.

The first was the lack of opportunities that she had to haunt the company; for whenever there were rehearsals, Isabelle had to rehearse too. Her first two (and to date, _only_ two) days of haunting had generated enough gossip to last for quite some time, but how long would it be until the company tired of discussing what would soon become old news? And when would Isabelle get the chance to practice her sinister chuckle, or her maniacal laugh, or even her breathy, ghostly speaking voice – all of which she had worked so hard to perfect?

The second was Meg Giry. The concierge's daughter continued to shy away from any and all conversation that revolved around the ghost, and Isabelle grew increasingly intrigued. But she still didn't quite know how to broach the subject. After all, she and Meg had never been close friends, so Isabelle had no real excuse to pay close enough attention to Meg that she'd notice her aversion to the subject. Well – no real excuse that wouldn't look suspicious from Meg's point of view, that is.

But as luck would have it, Isabelle's patience paid off; after a week of waiting, a series of events presented her with a solution to both of her problems on the very same day.

On Friday morning, approximately a week and a half after Isabelle had begun her duties as the resident ghost, the ballet mistress complained of a headache. The rehearsal proceeded as it normally would, but for only a few hours; by noon, Madame's headache had grown so painful that she was forced to go home early. The corps de ballet feared that she would leave them under the care of one of the principal dancers, which she occasionally did and which inevitably resulted in chaos – but so distracted was Madame that she left without giving them any instructions regarding the continuation of rehearsal.

Needless to say, none of the girls wasted any time before packing their belongings and running out to enjoy the day.

Isabelle left with the rest of them, as happy as anyone to have a day off, but she had a feeling that her plans were much different than anyone else's. Without any hesitation, she headed straight to her flat and put together her ghost costume – and then turned around and headed right back to the Opéra. She knew that the rest of the company still had a full day of rehearsals before them, and she was determined not to waste such a golden opportunity.

And waste it she certainly did not. She repeated her costume-stealing trick of the previous week; she let four people see her, including La Sorelli, who had hitherto claimed not to believe in the ghost; and she even went so far as to unloose one of the scrims from its hook, so that it fell to the stage and rolled into the orchestra pit when it was lowered. No-one was hurt, but Isabelle nearly clapped with glee at the number of gasps and screams that followed the execution of her trick.

By the end of the day, Isabelle felt very proud of herself indeed. So proud, in fact, that when she finally sneaked back into the dancers' dressing-room, she did not notice the three figures that followed close behind her. She closed the door, hearing but taking no heed of the faint voices that grew steadily closer...

"_It's fine, we'll wait for you."_

"_No need. You two can… can go on without me."_

"_It's late! We can wait."_

_"Really, don't bother. I promised Maman I'd meet her upstairs, and she'd – oh! She'd have my hide if she knew I… I had this with me..."_

The last voice let out a high-pitched giggle, and as the voices told each other farewell, some part of Isabelle's euphoria-clouded mind registered that they belonged to three of the ballet girls. But what Isabelle's mind did not register was the possibility that they could be headed for this very dressing-room.

She was just opening the door to the closet, preparing to take out her own clothes so that she could change – when a creak nearly made her jump out of her skin. She whirled around to find the dressing-room door open.

In the doorway, staring at her with a gaping mouth and wide eyes, stood Meg Giry.

Isabelle stared back, frozen to the spot. How stupid she'd been, not locking the door! Now it would all come to an end, a humiliating end, and all because she hadn't been paying attention...

Isabelle opened her mouth to say something. But she never found out what it was she would have said, because it was Meg who managed to speak first:

"_Erik?"_

In that moment, Isabelle was certain that it was all over. It would take less than a second for Meg to realize that she wasn't the real ghost – the real Erik – and then she'd have to give up the game for good.

But Meg only continued to stare, and after a few more seconds of tense silence, Isabelle realized that the other girl was swaying slightly as she stood. And that in her left hand, perfect, pristine little Meg Giry held a nearly-empty bottle of wine.

"Erik?" whispered Meg again, almost choking on the word, and Isabelle felt herself begin to smile beneath the mask. The game didn't have to end here after all.


	8. Kiss

**_Author's Note:_** To Aislin of the Shadows, Alicia Corbinwood, Baffled Seraph, convoitez, ElfLover, galabalesh, Han Futso, Hikishianara, Jaina Kenobi, Lady Lorax, Lady Viridis, lor, Masked Phantom. MindGame, Moon Avenger, Nade-Naberrie, Pickledishkiller, Ravensmyst, rio, sharaku, and Vix17... thank you all so much for your support! Your reviews make me grin like an idiot and, more than that, make me want to keep writing. So, thanks for your inspiration.

**_

* * *

_**

**_How to Be an Opera Ghost_**

**_Part Eight: "Kiss"_**

* * *

Isabelle's heart raced. This was the first time in her short career as a ghost that she'd found herself this close to anyone – and it was someone that she _knew._ She searched Meg's eyes for a hint of recognition, but saw none. Not yet, anyway. She had the mask to disguise nearly her entire face, save her lips and a portion of her jaw... but what would happen if she spoke? Certainly, she'd practiced the ghost voice until she thought it perfect – but she'd always done it when she was calm and focused. She didn't know how her current frayed nerves would affect her performance. 

So she didn't speak. She would refrain from speaking for as long as she could, which would give her enough time to compose herself – and which would also give Meg an impression of mysteriousness. Hopefully.

Instead of replying to Meg's question with words, she gave a simple inclination of her head. _Yes,_ damn it, she was Erik.

"Ohh," breathed Meg, reaching for the doorframe in order to support herself.

Isabelle stood aside in what she hoped was a gentlemanly fashion, indicating with a gesture of her hand that it was safe for Meg to enter the room. This way, Meg could get on with whatever business she had, and Isabelle could safely disappear until the dressing-room was clear again.

Meg blinked nervously a few times, and then slowly began to inch past Isabelle and into the room, all the while making a visible effort to keep as much distance as possible between herself and the ghost. Slinking over to her corner of the room, Meg seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Isabelle did too, although she hoped it wasn't as obvious. She gave Meg a departing bow and headed for the door. Only a few more steps, and she was home free.

But...

"Got to hide this from Maman," Meg mumbled.

Isabelle stopped dead in her tracks, despite her every instinct telling her to run like hell. Not only had Meg clearly been drinking, but she was worried about her mother finding out? This was interesting – even more interesting than usual since, as the ghost, Isabelle might very well come across an opportunity to use such information to her advantage….

She turned back and looked at Meg, who was now carefully hiding the bottle of wine beneath one of her costumes, which lay rumpled on the dressing-table.

It may have been that Meg sensed someone watching her, or it may have just been coincidental timing (Isabelle preferred to think it was the former), but she turned around, looking sheepishly at Isabelle. "You won't... er, won't tell her... will you?" said Meg, her normally quiet voice made uneven and awkward by the alcohol.

Isabelle cocked her head to one side, smiling faintly behind the mask, and Meg continued: "I know you, er, speak to her. Sometimes. In your box. And I only... oh dear." Meg blinked, as if trying to get her mind on track again. "It was just this once and…"

Meg trailed off, looking utterly lost.

And without even meaning to, Isabelle presented her with a Sinister Chuckle, at which Meg flinched. And then Meg frowned. And then Meg looked intently at Isabelle, as if studying her...

Inwardly cursing herself for opening her mouth, Isabelle remained as still as a statue, waiting for the inevitable moment of recognition.

It only took a moment.

"I know you're not really a ghost," said Meg.

Isabelle's shoulders drooped. She had been found out. And the only thing that had put it off this long was the wine. Surely, had Meg been in her right mind, she would have spotted the imposter as soon as she opened the door. Isabelle opened her mouth to speak – to apologize, perhaps? To beg for secrecy? But—

"Christine told me," Meg said slyly.

Isabelle blinked. Ah. This was different.

Leaning forward with a rather stupid grin, Meg continued in halting tones, "Christine said you loved – loved her. And you're just a man. And not a ghost. So you – do not – frighten me."

Isabelle did not have any idea what to say to this, and so she said nothing. Instead she opted for another nod of her head, hoping to convey to Meg that she didn't care. But would Erik care? she wondered frantically. Would he be angry at Meg's bold statement? Would he punish her somehow? Would he have left already...?

And for Meg's part, would she have ever dared, had she been sober, to say such things to a man she knew to be dangerous?

Unfortunately, Isabelle had answers to none of these questions.

"Although," said Meg, her voice growing somewhat steadier, "she did say so. That you were frightening, I mean. And also mysterious. And alluring. And..."

Whatever Meg said next was lost beneath the sound of every nerve in Isabelle's body screaming at her to bolt for the door. But she couldn't move. She could barely breath. This was _much_ more trouble than she'd been expecting.

And Meg, unsteady on her alcohol-heavy feet, was moving closer to her.

A hand reached for Isabelle's masked face, but she managed to block it, grabbing Meg's thin wrist in her own gloved hand. Mustering up all the courage she possibly could, she finally spoke:

"Don't. You. Dare."

Her voice came out in a hissed whisper, just low enough to be mistaken for masculine and just quiet enough to be mistaken for ghostly. Meg, clearly taken aback by the sudden words, pulled her hand sharply out of Isabelle's grasp and stared.

But after a moment, a grin began to spread across Meg's face. "Christine told me about that too," she said. "The mask."

Isabelle was on the verge of panicking. Surely Erik would never tolerate this! He was dangerous! He had killed! He could kill again! _Do something!_ Isabelle silently screamed at herself. _Do anything!_

But do what? It wasn't as thought she could simply _kill_ Meg Giry for her impudence. She didn't even _want_ to kill her. So she stood there, frozen stiff and rooted to the spot, as Meg spoke again in a voice that was almost a whisper: "But you don't have to worry. I won't tell anyone."

Meg leaned forward, closer and closer – and only when it was too late did Isabelle realize the other girl's intent.

Meg's lips pressed against hers with a force that nearly knocked her over backwards.

_Oh,_ thought Isabelle. _Oh, shit._


	9. Read

**_Author's Note:_** To Aislin of the Shadows, Alicia Corbinwood, Baffled Seraph, convoitez, ElfLover, enigmatic mystery, galabalesh, Han Futsu, Hikishianara, Jaina Kenobi, Lady Lorax, Lady Viridis, lor, Masked Phantom. MindGame, Moon Avenger, Nade-Naberrie, Pickledishkiller, Ravensmyst, rio, sharaku, and Vix17... your reviews never cease to make my day! Thank you so much.

* * *

**_How to Be an Opera Ghost_**

**_Part Nine: "Read"_**

* * *

Isabelle didn't know which worried her more: the fact that she was being kissed, and rather passionately at that, by one Meg Giry – or the fact that she was quite enjoying it. She found herself closing her eyes and leaning into the contact, marveling at the way Meg's lips were so much _softer_ than those of all the young men she'd kissed, and how they were now parted ever so slightly, and... 

Her eyes flew open, and she shoved Meg away with a force that would have made the real opera ghost proud. Meg stared. Isabelle stared back.

And then Meg giggled – the high-pitched, obnoxious giggle of a young woman who'd had far too much wine but firmly believed herself to be completely sober.

"What?" said Isabelle, trying her utmost not to let her sudden irritation color her ghost voice.

Meg started slightly at the word, but then burst into a fresh peal of giggles. When she finally spoke, the words all came out in a rush: "I kissed the opera ghost!" And after that, not even the hand that Meg clasped over her mouth could stifle the laughter that shook her body.

Ignoring a sudden inexplicable impulse to bang her head against a very hard surface, Isabelle managed to control herself enough to say in tones of complete indifference, "So you did."

"I kissed the opera ghost!" repeated Meg gleefully, as if saying it more than once might possibly make it even_ more_ true. But then she forced herself to calm down a little – at least, enough to speak in somewhat coherent sentences. "I mean, I oughtn't – heehee! – I oughtn't laugh," she said, leaning over the table in order to rummage through her bag for something. "I mean, you're quite good. A good kisser. Oh yes. Christine never mentioned that in her letters. She only said she was the first – oh my! Was she _really_ the first one you ever, ever kissed?" Meg's eyes widened, but she didn't wait for a reply. "That's amazing. Does that make me the second? Hee! That must mean you've a natural – er, a natural talent for it. For kissing. Ohh, kissing. Oh! I kissed the opera ghost! – Oh, here it is!" With this, she withdrew her hand from the bag, holding something between her thumb and forefinger.

Isabelle, whose head was already spinning, felt a pang of dread tighten her shoulders as Meg moved toward her again. This time, she told herself firmly, if Meg tried to kiss her again, she would run for her life.

But instead, Meg offered her something. A piece of paper, folded so many times that it looked like a tiny box in her hand. Isabelle took it fearfully, and Meg darted away. "I wrote that some time ago," she said, the hysteria finally beginning to recede from her voice. "Right after Christine left. I hope you... that is... I hope... just read it, will you?"

And with that, Meg turned and fled the room.

Isabelle blinked. She blinked again. Slowly, making sure that she didn't fall down in the process, she moved toward the door, shut it firmly, and locked it. And then she sat down, taking very deep breaths and letting them slowly out again.

Her heart was beating at an insane pace within her chest, and she shut her eyes and waited for it to slow down a little. When, after a long moment, her breathing finally felt somewhat normal again, she tried to wrap her mind around everything that had just happened.

Meg had found her. Meg had been drunk. Meg had believed her to be Erik. Meg had apparently developed a romantic interest in Erik. Meg had kissed her, thinking she was kissing Erik. Meg had told her she was a good kisser. Meg had been a reasonably good kisser herself.

Isabelle mentally slapped herself for that last thought, but nevertheless she grinned as she turned her attention upon the piece of paper in her hand. What more, she wondered, could Meg possibly have to say than everything she'd already implied with that kiss? Unfolding the paper, Isabelle began to read Meg's remarkably steady handwriting:

_Erik,_

_You and I only know each other from a distance. You know me as the daughter of your concierge, Madame Giry, and as a member of the corps de ballet. I know you as the opera ghost, and as the man who loved Christine Daaé. Christine is a dear friend of mine, and she told me everything that transpired between you. But you needn't worry. I shan't tell a soul._

_I don't know how to say this next part properly, for I have no experience in such matters… so I shall just come right out and say it._

_I am in love with you._

_I know it sounds mad, especially since I've never even met you, but Christine described you in such detail in her letters that I feel as though I _do_ know you. Your dark, tortured beauty. Your musical genius. Your powerful presence. Your fiery passion. She also told me why you insist upon wearing a mask, but I believe that appearances are of no consequence. You have a beautiful soul, Erik, of this I am sure. And no outward imperfection could mar that._

_I know that you must be grieving your loss of Christine, and I know it must be difficult to accept that she's gone. But should you ever find in yourself the ability to love again, please know that I await you._

_With undying affection,_

_Meg Giry_

At first Isabelle didn't have any idea what her response to such a letter should be.

So she read it again. And by the time she finished, she had developed a very clear idea. A giggle, obnoxious enough to rival even Meg's, escaped Isabelle's lips – followed by another – followed by a full-fledged Maniacal Laugh that she didn't even have to rehearse.

And here she'd been thinking that Christine was the only one of them who was overly melodramatic! But no; in just the past few minutes, phrases like "undying affection" and "beautiful soul" had proven her utterly wrong. Not to mention the bit about "tortured beauty." Isabelle felt that she ought to give Meg some sort of prize for that one.

As Isabelle walked home from the Opéra that night, she grinned happily at her strange predicament, despite being quite aware that by rights she should feel overwhelmed. She hummed to herself as she removed her shawl and set her satchel down on a chair, not even caring that she was probably painfully off-key. She dressed for bed eagerly, already anticipating the next day's rehearsal, when she would get to see how Meg had survived the night.

And as she reached down to fluff her pillow, she saw the note.

Not the note that Meg had given her. No; this was a small card, which lay upon her coverlet near her pillow, and which bore two sentences scrawled in red ink.

_I know who you are and what you are doing._

_But do not dare to presume to know the same of me._

Isabelle frowned at this. Red ink. Perhaps a poor attempt at making the note look as though it had been written in blood? Unbelievably messy handwriting. An overly enthusiastic attempt to disguise someone's real handwriting? Two simple sentences that bore an uncomfortably menacing undertone. A threat?

Her first guess was Meg Giry, and something within her gave a jolt at the idea. Meg could have known all along that she was not really Erik; she could be attempting blackmail!

But to what end? It made no sense. And besides, how would Meg have gotten the note into her flat?

Her second guess was the real opera ghost. Erik. This possibility made far more sense… but on the other hand, though the words fit, the writing did not. Isabelle felt sure that Erik would have used real blood, not just red ink. And shouldn't his handwriting be elegant and spidery, as befitted a man of such good taste in clothing? The whole thing simply wasn't _ghostly _enough.

No, she decided. It had to be Meg, playing a silly prank on her. It couldn't possibly be the real ghost.

Could it?


	10. Deduce

**_Author's Note:_** To Aislin of the Shadows, Alicia Corbinwood, Baffled Seraph, convoitez, ElfLover, enigmatic mystery, galabalesh, Han Futsu Anti Normal, Hikishianara, Jaina Kenobi, Lady Lorax, Lady Viridis, LejindaryBunny, lor, Masked Phantom. MindGame, Moon Avenger, Nade-Naberrie, Pickledishkiller, Ravensmyst, rio, sharaku, StitchGrl, and Vix17... your reviews make me go squee! Thank you!

* * *

**_How to Be an Opera Ghost_**

**_Part Ten: "Deduce"_**

* * *

By the time Isabelle left for rehearsal the next day, she had decided quite firmly that the author of the note had been Meg. She didn't know why Meg had done it, or moreover _how_ she'd gotten the note into Isabelle's flat – in fact, there were quite a few things that she didn't know. But the one thing that was very clear indeed was that Meg must be proven guilty. And if Isabelle accomplished nothing else that day, she needed at very least to set her mind at ease where the note was concerned. 

In her nervousness, Isabelle found herself walking to the Opéra faster than she normally would; consequently, she was one of the first to arrive. She took a few calming breaths as she reached the dressing-room, telling herself that she had absolutely no reason to be this nervous, and for the next few minutes she actually believed this to be true.

The dancers filtered in, for the most part looking content and well-rested. They exchanged the usual pleasantries as they changed into their rehearsal clothes, coupled with excited tales of the exploits they'd had on their unexpected day off. For Isabelle's part, she claimed to have gone home and read a book.

"I went to the café for a drink," said Anne St. Fort, to the surprise of absolutely no-one. Where Anne was concerned, wine flowed as easily as water, and everyone knew that she'd been a regular patron of the café in question (a little place about five minutes from the Opéra) for at least a year.

Isabelle was about to inquire after Jacques, a certain waiter to whom Anne had recently taken a fancy, when Cécile Jammes added cheerfully, "We had a ladies' night out, and spent the entire evening lamenting our horrible luck in love. Well" – and here she allowed herself a little smirk – _"their_ horrible luck. I was just in it for the wine."

"Speaking of which," said Anne with a frown, "where's Meg? She's not usually late."

"Oh dear," said Elise Marchand. "Don't tell me she went with you? She becomes completely incoherent after one glass..."

"That explains a lot," said Cécile with a grimace. "She had three last night. And she took the bottle home with her."

"Wonder if we'll see her at all today?" said Isabelle, stifling a laugh. The girls shrugged as they filed out the door, their pointe shoes clicking against the floor of the corridor.

Because of the missed rehearsal on the previous day, Madame wasted no time in getting them to work. They spent three hours perfecting a five-minute segment of a routine, before they were allowed to break for lunch. And only then, as the exhausted troupe of girls collectively collapsed onto the floor and pulled out their sandwiches and salads, did Meg Giry arrive.

And Isabelle's nervousness returned full force.

The girls looked at her with hungry eyes, ready to bombard her with questions, but Meg brushed them off with a wan smile. "I was just a bit sick this morning," she explained wearily. "I have to go tell Madame I'm here."

Evidently Madame was in a very forgiving mood (very likely because of her own minor illness on the previous day), because she allowed Meg to sit and watch the rehearsal for the rest of the afternoon, so long as she paid close attention and memorized the movements. Meg was, after all, the leader of her row. It wouldn't do for her to look sloppy.

Only when the rehearsal finally drew to a close did Isabelle get the opportunity to speak with Meg. Meg hadn't changed into her dance clothes and was therefore heading out the door without stopping in the dressing-room first, but Isabelle cornered her before she could leave the building.

"Are you all right?" asked Isabelle, fighting hard both to sound genuinely concerned, and to suppress the fluttery feeling in her stomach.

"I'm fine," Meg replied in a tone far flatter than she'd used on the previous night. "I just need to sleep. I'm sure Anne and Cécile have told everyone just _why_ I was sick?"

Isabelle grinned. "Of course. You know Cécile wouldn't have let such delicious gossip go to waste."

Meg laughed softly at that. Cécile Jammes was quite infamous among the corps de ballet for telling stories, both true and otherwise.

"So," Isabelle said, casting about for a plausible reason to continue the conversation, "is that all? Just a few glasses of wine?"

Meg shrugged – a bit uncomfortably, Isabelle noted with satisfaction. "That's all," Meg said. "I'm afraid I haven't much experience with wine."

And she frowned. Isabelle watched her face eagerly, willing her to speak, and after a moment Meg looked up with wary eyes. "There was something else," she said quietly.

Isabelle's heart leaped into her chest. "What else?" she said, trying not to sound too eager.

"Can you keep a secret?" whispered Meg.

"Of course," said Isabelle, and silently added, _Even though you obviously can't._

Meg leaned closer, and for the first time that day Isabelle sensed some of the previous night's melodramatics seeping back into Meg's demeanor.

"I kissed someone," she said breathlessly.

"Ah!" said Isabelle. "Who? I didn't know you were seeing anyone."

"I'm not," said Meg quickly, then amended the statement. "I mean, I _wasn't_... and I suppose I'm still not, but..."

"This sounds a bit scandalous," Isabelle offered, affecting the attitude of the gossip-hungry chorus girl that she usually was. "Tell me who, and I promise I won't tell a soul."

"Really promise?" said Meg.

"Really," said Isabelle, crossing her heart to emphasize the point.

Meg lowered her voice as much as she possibly could while still remaining audible. "I kissed the opera ghost!" she said, grinning wildly.

Isabelle dropped her jaw as if in astonishment. "No!" she said.

"Yes!" squealed Meg, then promptly lowered her voice again. "He was tall and thin and he wore a mask so I couldn't see his face, but he kissed me so passionately, and he was so handsome."

_I am not handsome,_ thought Isabelle indignantly. _I am _pretty,_ damn it._

But she hid her thoughts with expert grace, and outwardly she only sighed. "Masked and handsome, was he?" she said. "Lucky…."

"I know," said Meg with a sigh of her own. "Oh! Someone's coming. I should go. Don't tell anyone!"

With those final words, Meg turned and made an appropriately dramatic exit from the Opéra.

A crudely-dressed young man – probably a stagehand – passed Isabelle with a polite nod, and Isabelle waited until he was gone before she frowned to herself. _Handsome?_ Hadn't Meg _read_ any of Christine's letters? Erik's face was supposedly a sight that made men scream and women faint.

But even more important was the still-unresolved question of the note. It was obvious now that Meg hadn't sent it. So who had?

"Handsome indeed," Isabelle muttered to herself, hoping that the sound of her own voice would put her at ease a little.

It did, but only for a moment, for the words had barely left her mouth before an echo reached her ears. "In_deed,"_ it said.

Isabelle felt herself pale. An echo that changed the inflection of that which it was echoing? An echo of a mere whisper, in a place where there oughtn't be an echo to begin with?

Her mind immediately recalled the mysterious note of the night before. "Do not dare to presume to know the same of me," it had said. Do not dare to presume to know who he was, it meant. Or what he was doing in the Opéra.

But while she didn't know what he was doing, either at present or in the more general, long-term sense of the phrase... she did know who he was. She no longer harbored any doubts whatsoever as to who had written the note.

Isabelle ran back to the dressing-room without a backward glance.


	11. Hear

**_Author's Note:_** To Aislin of the Shadows, Alicia Corbinwood, Baffled Seraph, convoitez, ElfLover, enigmatic mystery, flamingices, galabalesh, Han Futsu Anti Normal, Hikishianara, Jaina Kenobi, Lady Lorax, Lady Viridis, LejindaryBunny, lor, Masked Phantom. MindGame, Moon Avenger, Nade-Naberrie, Phantom of Les Miserables, Pickledishkiller, Ravensmyst, rio, sharaku, StitchGrl, and Vix17... your reviews are what's keepin' me going. Thank you! (And for all those who asked: yes, Erik will make an appearance. Very soon.)

* * *

**_How to Be an Opera Ghost_**

**_Part Eleven: "Hear"_**

* * *

There was no rehearsal the next day for the corps de ballet, for it was Sunday and people were generally expected to spend the day resting and praying and such. Unfortunately, this meant that nobody else had rehearsals either, and so it would have been rather pointless for Isabelle to haunt the Opéra. 

She debated going there anyway, with the intention of perhaps scoping out a secret passage or two… but in the end, she decided that it wasn't worth it. Managers, company members, and even the police had searched the place a hundred times over, hoping to discover the ghost's secrets, but to no avail. And Isabelle had no illusions about faring any better in a search of her own.

Besides, she was tired. Every day, when everyone else was at home resting (or drinking), she would use her free time to attempt to master the nuances of the ghost's behavior. The way she imagined he ought to walk. The way she imagined he would sit down and stand up. The way he would look at another person. And of course, most importantly, the way he sounded.

So she decided that she'd spend Sunday relaxing and not thinking about the ghost business. She walked all the way to the Ile de la Cité for a late mass, and tried not to think about the strange echo that she'd heard. She bought a crèpe from a vendor on the Pont-au-Change, and tried not to think about the threatening note that the ghost had written her. She walked along the Quai and through the Quartier Latin, and tried not to think about how dashing she looked in the mask and cloak. She gave a couple of coins to a street violinist, and tried not to think about being kissed by Meg Giry.

She meandered back to her flat as the sun set in the west, still trying not to think about anything remotely connected to the ghost; and by the time she sat down in her favourite chair and took her shoes off, she found that she'd acquired a headache from all the effort she'd put into not thinking about it. So she went to bed early, in hopes that she might finally find the respite she'd been seeking all day.

That night, Isabelle dreamed about the opera ghost.

o o o

The following week passed by in a nonstop flurry of rehearsals, which were becoming more and more intense by the day. The premier of _Carmen_ was fast approaching, and the company was becoming quite restless with anticipation.

Madame, joining the restlessness with fervor, began to insist on longer hours with shorter breaks; and as a result, the corps de ballet did little else but eat, sleep, and dance. The dressing-room resounded with complaints of every kind, but Isabelle was certain that nobody was more frustrated than she. Longer hours meant not only that she had no time to haunt, but also that she had very little time even to practice at home!

Talk of the ghost dwindled steadily in the face of the pressures of the forthcoming opening night, and by the following Monday, Isabelle was able to spent an entire day at the Opéra without once hearing even a passing mention of the ghost.

It was simply unacceptable.

But just as it had before, an opportunity presented itself to Isabelle on a silver platter.

On Tuesday afternoon, in the midst of a hurried lunch, Meg mentioned that she'd been given a small solo. "It isn't much," she said modestly, in the face of a dozen jealous glares. "Just a silly thing near the end. And of course, it means I'll have to stay late for extra rehearsals."

She pulled a face as she announced the last part, and she received quite a few groans of sympathy.

"Stay _late?"_ echoed Yvette. "Why can't you just learn it during the day?"

"Because," said Meg, lowering her voice lest she be overheard, "Madame doesn't want to waste any time. Extra rehearsal is a condition of taking the solo. She wouldn't have given it to me otherwise. And what was I supposed to do? Say _no?"_

Sympathy and jealousy cancelled each other out at this point, and most of the dancers just shrugged. But Isabelle, adopting a concerned voice, asked, "When is your extra rehearsal?"

"The first one is tonight," said Meg wearily. "I'm allowed half an hour for dinner, and then she's keeping me here until ten o'clock."

In less than an instant, Isabelle's plans were made.

The half-hour gave Isabelle plenty of time to go to her flat, retrieve her ghost costume, and return to the Opéra. The only problem, of course, was that she couldn't very well use the dancers' dressing-room this time, as it would be occupied by the very person she intended to haunt.

After only a few moments of hesitation, Isabelle had what she humbly thought of as an utterly brilliant idea.

Christine Daaé's old dressing-room.

Nobody used it anymore because it was so far from the others… and besides, what could be a more appropriate place for the ghost to be, than in the dressing-room of the woman he'd supposedly loved?

So it was with a wily grin that Isabelle made her way through the corridors toward her destination. It didn't even occur to her until she arrived there that the door might be locked – but it appeared that luck was with her. The door opened without so much as a creak.

Isabelle lit the lamps within, locked the door behind her, and set about unpacking her satchel. Draping the suit and the cloak over the chair of the dressing-table, she eagerly began to unbutton her dress.

But she stopped at the third button down, her fingers freezing mid-motion as her ears alerted her to something very, very odd.

The odd part was not that she could hear a voice singing; singing happened quite often at the Opéra. No, the odd part was that while the voice sounded quite faint, as though it were far away, it seemed to be originating from a point right beside her left ear. And when Isabelle, out of habit, turned to the left and looked, there was nobody there.

She strained her ears, trying to see if she could recognize the voice – or at least figure out where it was coming from. But the harder she tried, the more the voice eluded her… and a small knot of dread began to manifest itself in her stomach.

"Isabelle," sang the voice, so softly that she could barely discern the syllables of her name from the wordless melody that surrounded them.

"Who is it?" she whispered, even though she already knew.

The melody stopped, but the words that followed were like a song in themselves. "I am that which you are not," said the ghost, the sweetness of his voice contrasting sharply with the threat of his words. "You tread on dangerous ground. Young girls should not play games about which they know nothing."

Isabelle furrowed her brow, half intimidated and half offended. "But I—"

"The ghost," said the voice, effectively cutting her off, "will not haunt tonight." And in those last words, there was an edge to the sweetness – an edge that made Isabelle's skin prickle.

She opened her mouth to speak, but realized immediately that arguing would have been useless. For she knew – without knowing _how_ she knew – that the ghost had gone.

Which therefore made it safe for her to mutter, "I'm just trying to do my _job,"_ before repacking her costume and getting out of Christine's dressing-room as fast as she possibly could.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **_If you're waiting for the next chapter and want something to read in the meantime, please click on my authorname and check out my other four Phanfics: "The Odalisque" (AU Kay-verse; Erik/OC), "The Mirror" (Kay-verse; Erik), "The Voice" (very AU Leroux-verse; Christine, Erik, Mamma Valérius), and "The Siren" (Kay-verse; Erik/Christine). Thanks again for your reviews! 


	12. Watch

**_Author's Note:_** To Aislin of the Shadows, Alicia Corbinwood, Angelus Musici, Baffled Seraph, convoitez, ElfLover, enigmatic mystery, flamingices, galabalesh, Han Futsu Anti Normal, Hikishianara, Jaina Kenobi, Lady Lorax, Lady Viridis, LejindaryBunny, lor, Masked Phantom. MindGame, Misty Breyer, Moon Avenger, Nade-Naberrie, notesinred, Patronus99, Phantom of Les Miserables, Pickledishkiller, Ravensmyst, rio, sharaku, StitchGrl, and Vix17... you guys make me incredibly happy. I'm sorry for the delay in updating; I've been getting sidetracked by pretty Québecois singers. Eek!

* * *

**_How to Be an Opera Ghost_**

**_Part Twelve: "Watch"_**

* * *

If Isabelle was going to be completely honest with herself, she would admit that she was a little scared. More than a little scared, in fact. Quite a bit scared.

But Isabelle had no intention of being completely honest with herself. So when she went home that night and found that her attempts to stop herself from shaking were unsuccessful, she blamed it not on fear, but on sheer annoyance. She was annoyed with the ghost, of course – the _real _ghost – for trying to frighten her. How dare he, after all the work she had put into restoring his reputation?

Even more than that, though, she was annoyed with herself. At the time, using Christine Daaé's dressing room had seemed a stroke of sheer brilliance; but in retrospect, Isabelle could see exactly what had been wrong with the idea. Moreover, she couldn't understand why she hadn't seen it before. She'd read Meg's letters. She _knew_ that Christine had first known the ghost as the "Angel of Music," and that he had first spoken to her while she was in her dressing-room.

Therefore, shouldn't it be logical that he would have an established method of communicating with whoever happened to be in the dressing-room at any given time? And that, because Christine had been there, he might pay that particular room a _little_ bit more attention than the others? And that there might be the _smallest_ chance that when Isabelle showed up uninvited in the room that had been unused since Christine had left, he _might_ have taken offense?

Hindsight made the answers to all of these questions painfully obvious.

So when she decided to haunt Meg's next solo rehearsal on the following evening, Isabelle made plans, in the most logical manner she could think of, to avoid another confrontation: she would simply find another dressing-room.

But whatever stroke of luck had left Christine's dressing-room door unlocked the previous night was evidently not going to be repeated. Tonight, nothing was open except the dancers' room, which was out of the question since Meg would be using it. Isabelle even ventured into the corridor where the men's dressing-rooms were. She took a cursory look around to make sure that nobody was there, and then she tried the nearest doorknob, only to find it locked. So was the next – and the one after, and the one after that.

This was _not_ how she'd hoped things would go.

Looking up and down the corridor in disgust, Isabelle finally caught sight of another door that might prove worthy of trying. It wouldn't be as nice as a real dressing-room, of course, but it would do in a pinch. And this, Isabelle decided, probably qualified as a pinch.

To her great relief, she found the door unlocked, and she stepped quietly into the small broom closet and began to change. And as she did so, she found herself enjoying this tiny space even more than she'd enjoyed the dressing room. Broom closets, after all, featured in nearly every story she'd ever heard – every story that involved any kind of intrigue, anyway. Broom closets were where you went if you wanted to kiss your lover without anyone seeing. They were a place to hide if you didn't want to be caught by the police, or by your parents, or by anyone else who might have cause to chase you.

Isabelle had never used one herself, but somehow the presence of the broom closet made the whole experience seem even more illicit than it already was.

Five minutes later, feeling thoroughly ghostly, Isabelle cautiously opened the closet door. She looked right, then left, and after making certain that the corridor was still empty, she crept out and headed for the theatre.

As she'd somehow expected, the door to Box Five was closed and locked – and this time, there wasn't even a well-placed maid to help her gain entrance. She tried a few of the other boxes, but nobody had been remiss in their duties tonight; everything was properly locked, which was very annoying indeed.

But while it was annoying, it meant very little in the grand scheme of things – the grand scheme, of course, being Isabelle's intention to haunt Meg Giry. Meg had a rehearsal in the theatre, which meant the main entrance to the theatre would be open, which in turn meant that even if Isabelle couldn't sneak into one of the boxes, she could at very least sneak in through the back of the house.

So, after ascertaining that nobody was around to see her go in, she made her way into the stalls, chose a shadowed seat in the back corner, and waited for Meg to arrive.

Madame arrived first, five minutes early – and then came Meg, five minutes late and in a terrible frenzy. Madame was waiting for her on the stage, wearing a pointedly impatient look that Isabelle knew far too well, and Meg apologized for at least two minutes straight before she actually calmed down enough to concentrate on her dance. Just like Meg, Isabelle thought to herself with a smile. Even when there was nobody around to appreciate her dramatics, she still walked the fine line between earnestness and hysteria.

But while she danced, Meg was a different creature entirely. Certainly, Isabelle had seen her dance before, but only because Meg was the row leader and Isabelle _had_ to watch her. She had always been too focused on her own movements to pay proper attention to Meg's. But now that she could watch, unseen and unknown, she found herself intrigued. No wonder Meg had been promoted to row leader at such a young age! Her arms moved with a weightless grace; her turns were flawless; and she carried herself with a measure of poise that most seventeen year old girls could not dream of achieving.

Isabelle, who was to turn twenty in little more than a month, could easily have been jealous of Meg's talent – and even as she sat there watching, she was aware that she probably ought to be. But instead, she just found herself staring in wonder at how such grace could emanate from the little Meg Giry that she knew. This was the same Meg Giry that giggled over the latest gossip with the rest of the corps de ballet, was it not? The same Meg who had gotten so drunk that she couldn't tell Isabelle from the real opera ghost? The same Meg who had kissed her…?

Feeling a flush rising to her cheeks, Isabelle shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Meg stopped dancing at a word from Madame, nodded her head as the instructor gave her a note, and said something in return. Isabelle was struck with the urge to move closer in order to hear what she was saying, but held herself in check. She was the _ghost_ tonight, not _Isabelle_. She could not give her presence away – not when Madame was there!

Madame said something in return, and Meg laughed: a loud, tinkling laugh that made Isabelle grip the seat in front of her so as to keep herself from moving. Oh, this would not do. She couldn't stay here any longer.

As quietly as she could, Isabelle sneaked back out of the theatre and toward the dressing-rooms. She debated changing her clothes and leaving for the night, but then she paused. Couldn't she wait just a little while? Couldn't she hide in Meg's dressing-room until the rehearsal was over, and take the chance that Meg might think again that she was Erik? Or take the chance that Meg might not see her at all?

Before she could make up her mind, Isabelle's feet made the decision for her. In less than two minutes she was standing outside the dancers' dressing-room, staring at the door as if wondering how it got there. She reached a hand out to open the door – but before she could, she saw something out of the corner of her eye. Whirling around to see what it was, she found herself face to face with something that nearly made her scream out loud.

A mirror image of herself, standing no less than ten feet away.

A mirror image that was at least six inches taller than she – and much thinner – and unmistakably male.

"You," she began, and tripped over the word, "you weren't here a second ago."

He inclined his head ever so slightly to one side. "Wasn't I?" he said. His voice, the same unearthly beautiful voice she'd heard the night before, was crystal clear now that he stood before her without walls between them.

"Er," she said lamely, "no?"


	13. Deceive

**_Author's Note:_** To Aislin of the Shadows, Alicia Corbinwood, Angelus Musici, Baffled Seraph, convoitez, ElfLover, enigmatic mystery, flamingices, galabalesh, Han Futsu Anti Normal, hikari-no-tsubasa, Hikishianara, Jaina Kenobi, Lady Lorax, Lady Viridis, LejindaryBunny, lor, Masked Phantom, Melissa Brandybuck, MindGame, Misty Breyer, Moon Avenger, Nade-Naberrie, notesinred, Patronus99, Phantom of Les Miserables, Pickledishkiller, PrincessSaraSolo, Rancid Melody, Ravensmyst, rio, sharaku, StitchGrl, Tian Sirki, and Vix17... I can't tell you how much I appreciate your reviews. I'm glad you're enjoying so far!

* * *

**_How to Be an Opera Ghost_**

**_Part Thirteen: "Deceive"_**

****

* * *

He did not answer her, and his statuelike stillness made Isabelle feel distinctly uncomfortable in his presence. Willing herself to stand her ground, she fished for more words: "At least… I don't think you were. Er. Were you?"

At this, he laughed: a light, lilting sound that nevertheless caused a shiver to tickle Isabelle's shoulders. That laugh! It was so very like her own Sinister Chuckle, but at the same time so far beyond anything she could ever hope to produce with her own vocal cords. She felt herself redden at the thought, and for a fleeting moment she was very glad that she was wearing a mask.

"I find it tiresome to have to repeat myself," he said. "Have I not made it clear that the ghost will not haunt this theatre anymore?"

"No!" replied Isabelle hotly. "You said the ghost will not haunt _tonight._ Last night, I mean. You didn't say anything about tonight, or tomorrow, or anything except last night."

But even as the words came out of her mouth, Isabelle knew that her answer was the wrong one. She'd taken the phrase as literally as possible, out of stubbornness or foolishness – but she'd known what he meant. And judging from the feral smile that now curved his lips beneath the mask, he knew it too.

"You will not haunt tonight, mademoiselle. Or tomorrow night. Or any other night hereafter."

The words were spoken in a tone that allowed for and expected no argument, but such was Isabelle's nature that she couldn't help it. "Or else?" she challenged.

"Or else."

The simplistic finality of that echoed phrase would have sounded laughably melodramatic had it been uttered in any other voice but his; but there was nothing laughable about those two words. He didn't even need to say anything more. She knew how that "or else" ended. She frowned.

"But _why?"_ she asked, and was horrified when the words sounded like the whine of a small child.

The ghost, however, chose neither to acknowledge her tone nor to answer her question. Instead he said, "I advise you to heed my warning. I rarely give them." An ironic smile twisted his lips, and he added, "In that respect, you may consider yourself fortunate."

"I understand," said Isabelle darkly. "It's because I'm a girl, right? I can't haunt properly because I'm a girl. I get a warning when other people don't, because I'm a girl. Is that it, _Erik?"_

The sound of his name had its desired effect on him; he flinched almost imperceptibly, as though her knowledge of his identity had somehow wounded him – but he recovered within a split second, all traces of humor now entirely gone from his austere figure. "Would you rather I didn't give you a warning?" he asked silkily.

"Well, no, but why can't I—?"

"My reasons," he said abruptly, "are my own."

He turned on his heel and stalked silently away.

The next time Isabelle blinked, he had disappeared.

She gaped into the empty air, and it was only when she heard faint footsteps moving slowly in her direction, that she recovered her senses enough to retreat back to her closet.

o o o

When the dancers' rehearsal began the next day, Isabelle was in a foul mood. She had returned the night before to her flat, thoroughly shaken by her face-to-face (or mask-to-mask, rather) encounter with the opera ghost, but in her stubbornness she still refused to admit to herself that it was fear she felt. Certainly, she felt _something _in response to Erik's tacit threat, but she made herself believe that it was only indignation and anger.

Indignation, of course, at being threatened in the first place.

And anger at the fact that he'd refused to tell her _why_ he didn't want her to haunt the Opéra.

As she moved mechanically through rehearsal, still dwelling on the events of the night before, it occurred to her that he might not have a reason at all. Perhaps he simply wished to thwart her adventures for his own amusement; perhaps it gave him some strange satisfaction to see her bored to death within a company that was slowly losing interest in his existence.

Or perhaps she simply wasn't a good enough ghost. This thought, which occurred to her as the dancers dispersed for lunch, worsened her already black mood; and instead of joining her fellow dancers as she normally did, Isabelle took her lunch to a far corner of the theatre. Slumping sullenly into her seat as she ate, she immersed herself in thoughts of her own failure and frowned at nobody in particular.

"Can I sit here?"

The voice, light and timid, made Isabelle jump as it cut into her thoughts. She was about to tell the owner of the voice to leave her alone, damn it – but before she could, she looked up and saw that the owner was none other than Meg Giry, whom she'd haunted the night before.

"Oh," said Isabelle awkwardly. "Yes, of course."

Meg plopped unceremoniously into the seat beside Isabelle's. She unwrapped a small sandwich, took a small bite, and swallowed, not noticing that Isabelle had stopped eating in order to watch her.

"So," said Meg after a moment, "what's the matter with you? You've been acting oddly all morning."

Isabelle shrugged, suddenly embarrassed by her unfriendly attitude. "It's nothing. I just had a bad night. Nothing."

Meg patted Isabelle's knee in a friendly manner, which inexplicably caused Isabelle's shoulders to tighten. "Come now, you can tell me. I told you my secret about the ghost, didn't I?"

Meeting Meg's devilish smile with one of her own, Isabelle laughed a little. "Indeed you did," she conceded, and shrugged again. "It was… well, it was a man, if you must know. I was trying to visit a friend at her flat, but before I got there a man approached me. He told me to stay away from the place, _or else."_

"Or else?" repeated Meg, furrowing her brow. "Or else what?"

"Just 'or else,'" said Isabelle. "You can guess what he meant."

"_Oh,"_ said Meg. "That must have been horrible! What did you do?"

"Nothing!" said Isabelle. "Before I could do anything, he disappeared. Right into thin air. And I went home. I never did get to see y— my friend."

"How strange," murmured Meg. Isabelle nodded, but kept silent when she saw a strange look come over Meg's face. "The opera ghost does that too, you know," said Meg dreamily. "Disappears into thin air. That's what he did after we kissed."

"Did he?" said Isabelle, who knew very well that she'd done no such thing.

"Yes," said Meg, and took another bite of her sandwich.

Suddenly, a wonderful idea popped into Isabelle's mind; and Meg, so wrapped up in her private thoughts of the ghost, didn't notice her eyes widen at the thought. Isabelle's goal had been to revive the ghost within the company, had it not? And although becoming the ghost herself had clearly been the _best_ way to do this, it was not the _only_ way.

After all, only one mouth and one ear are needed to call a rumor into being.

"I've seen the ghost too, you know," said Isabelle casually. "I saw him last night."

Meg's sandwich fell to the floor, but she didn't appear to notice. "You _did?"_ she whispered fervently, leaning closer to Isabelle.

Isabelle nodded, resisting the urge to dance for joy. "I did – but look, Madame wants us back on stage. Meet me after we're finished tonight, and I'll tell you all about it."

Meg nodded fervently, grinning like a madwoman. Isabelle grinned too, but for entirely different reasons.


	14. Plot

**_Author's Note:_** I'm so sorry this has taken so long real life (and other fanfic) has been getting in the way. But stick with me for just a few more chapters; I'm nearly finished!

Meanwhile, a million thanks to my reviewers:Aislin of the Shadows, Alicia Corbinwood, Angelus Musici, Baffled Seraph, BelleMarie, convoitez, ElfLover, enigmatic mystery, flamingices, galabalesh, Han Futsu Anti Normal, hikari-no-tsubasa, Hikishianara, Jaina Kenobi, Lady Lorax, Lady Viridis, LejindaryBunny, lor, Masked Phantom, Melissa Brandybuck, MindGame, Misty Breyer, MooMoo-Sama, Moon Avenger, Nade-Naberrie, notesinred, Ophira Holmes, Patronus99, Phantom of Les Miserables, Pickledishkiller, PrincessSaraSolo, Rancid Melody, Ravensmyst, rio, sharaku, Shelvins, StitchGrl, Tian Sirki, and Vix17.

* * *

**_How to Be an Opera Ghost_**

**_Part Fourteen: "Plot"_**

* * *

After the rehearsal was over, most of the dancers scurried about, changing at lightning speed in order to leave as quickly as possible. But when Isabelle noticed Meg lagging behind, taking her time, she took the hint and slowed her own pace as well.

"Good night!" called each dancer as, one by one, they left the dressing-room.

As soon as Isabelle and Meg were the only two left, Meg immediately dropped her shoes, with which she'd been pretending to have a problem, and turned to Isabelle. "Well?" she said excitedly. "Tell me everything!"

Isabelle smiled in delight at having Meg's attention focused so suddenly and thoroughly on her. "Everything?" she repeated dizzily.

"About the ghost," prompted Meg.

Isabelle blinked. "The ghost!" she said. "Right. Yes. Well, as I said, I saw him last night." She fumbled for something more interesting to add, but she could barely separate one word from the next in her mind. "That's – that's all, really."

Meg looked vaguely disappointed, but then began to question Isabelle for herself. "What was he wearing?" she began. "The mask, of course. But was it the same suit as always? Was he wearing his cloak? I've heard that sometimes he doesn't."

"Yes, of course," said Isabelle. "It looked like a very nice cloak. Velvet, I think."

With a hint of a frown, Meg said, "You were close enough to tell?"

"Yes – I mean, not _terribly_ close," said Isabelle quickly. "It might not have been velvet. But you know, it was the way it caught the light. It shimmered a little, like velvet does."

Meg tilted her head ever so slightly to one side, as if thinking over this bit of information. "It caught the light," she echoed in a low voice, and then fixed her eyes again on Isabelle. "Where did you see him?"

"In the, er, the corridor. Just outside this room."

"This room?" said Meg.

A brilliant idea occurred to Isabelle, and she smiled warmly at Meg. "Yes. I expect he might have been" – and here she lowered her voice for dramatic effect – _"looking for you!"_

"Oh!" cried Meg, bringing a hand up to her mouth. "Do you really think so?"

"I'm sure of it," said Isabelle confidently, watching with pleasure as Meg's eyes positively shone.

"How are you sure?" pressed Meg. "Did he say anything about me? Not that I think he'd give our secret away, but did he _hint_ at anything?"

"Well," said Isabelle, thinking quickly. "He said, 'Is there anyone in this room?' We'd all just left only a moment before, so I said that there wasn't."

Meg seemed to be waiting for more, so Isabelle added, "He seemed disappointed."

"Ah!" sighed Meg. "I must've been eating dinner. If only he'd come just a moment sooner."

"It's too bad," agreed Isabelle. "I think we ought to have a drink."

Meg frowned at her. "What?"

"A drink," Isabelle repeated hopefully. "It's what you do when you're in love and things don't work out the way you want them to: you have a drink. With your friends. So we should. I mean... if you want to. Unless – you don't have a rehearsal tonight, do you? I didn't think you did."

"Not tonight," said Meg. "I've got one tomorrow though, so I probably shouldn't go out tonight..."

"Not even for _one_ glass of wine?" said Isabelle.

Meg gave her a smile that seemed to border on being a giggle. "Come now, surely you remember what happened last time I had wine!" she said.

Isabelle, who remembered very clearly, felt her heart skip a beat.

"No," continued Meg. "I really shouldn't. I really ought to go straight home and rest, you know. I've been so tired these past few days."

"Oh," said Isabelle, trying to sound sympathetic. A new idea, a sort of last resort, entered her mind. "I could walk you home?" she suggested.

"That's very sweet," said Meg with a genuinely appreciative smile, "but you needn't go out of your way. I'm actually meant to meet my mum out front. She'll be finished by now, and we're going to walk together."

"Ah," said Isabelle. "Of course."

Picking up her bag, which was by now packed and ready to go, Meg headed for the door. Before she opened it, though, she turned back to Isabelle and said conspiratorially, "But if you see the ghost again, do tell him about my rehearsal tomorrow, won't you? I'd dearly love it if he'd find me and kiss me again."

Isabelle nodded, silently agreeing to Meg's request, and the latter dashed off to meet her mother, leaving Isabelle alone in the dressing-room.

_I'd dearly love it if he'd kiss me again..._

A wicked smile crept across Isabelle's face as she gathered her own things and prepared to leave.

Suddenly, she didn't care what Erik did or did not want her to do. Tomorrow night, the ghost would be back.


End file.
